


You're All I Need (All I Can Taste)

by This_Bloody_Cat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (But I Swear No One Dies!), And You've Been Warned, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, At Least According to the Comments? :D, Because I'm Always Crap at Reading the Mood, Bonding, Bottom Draco, But Well Apparently It's There, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, HP: EWE, Happy Reading?, Healer Harry, Hogwarts Eighth Year, I Actually Never Noticed, It's Actually Pretty Heavy on the Angst, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Hogwarts, Potions Accident, Potions Masters, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:13:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_Bloody_Cat/pseuds/This_Bloody_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Potter doesn't deserve any kind of power—especially not over Draco—because Potter is an imbecile and quite possibly a bit of a sadist, and he obviously has no idea what to do with it anyway. Aside from, apparently, screwing Draco over until he no longer knows which way is north.</p><p>Or, Draco can remember the last time Potter walked away from his life like it was yesterday. Who's to say it won't happen again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're All I Need (All I Can Taste)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thania_hinata (sakurahimecoolblue)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurahimecoolblue/gifts).



> Written for [smoochfest 2015](http://hd-smoochfest.livejournal.com/159130.html), to prompt #173 (In My Veins - Andrew Belle) by [thania-hinata](http://thania-hinata.livejournal.com/).
> 
> Dear prompter, I loved this prompt so much when I saw it, I just had to have it! Thank you so much [iwao](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwao/pseuds/Iwao), [eidheann](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eidheann/pseuds/eidheann) and [pasdexcuses](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdexcuses/pseuds/pasdexcuses) for beta-reading this for me. You are all too marvellous for words; I honestly don't know what I'd have done without you :) Lastly, thank you mods for your endless patience—and of course, for running this wonderful fest!

**Saturday, 21st November 1998**

 

Draco and Pansy had been sitting side by side when Potter walked in. The eighth year common room was nearly empty, the fire crackled soothingly in the hearth, and Pansy might have been telling him about that girl in the Hufflepuff team, the one everyone thought was pregnant but no one actually knew by whom. Draco can no longer remember the details—in fact, he's not even sure he'd been paying attention.

Right then, he only had eyes for Potter, and Potter stood frozen by the door. There were a million tiny snowflakes slowly melting in his hair, and a little red in his cheeks from the sharp November wind just outside. He looked tired, and Draco thought he looked gorgeous all the same, which was so ridiculous it bordered on silly. Then again, when had Draco been anything but, when it came to Potter?

He never expected Potter to turn away from him. He never expected to have to follow him up the stairs, to have to call out "Harry, wait!" just to get Potter to stop and look at him. And he certainly never expected to regret it. He never expected the unyielding ice in Potter's gaze—flat, colder than Father's cell in Azkaban. Good grief, Potter's eyes would have made the Dark Lord's glare seem cheerful.

Draco wonders how that didn't clue him in to what was about to happen. It wasn't even the first time Potter tore Draco's world to pieces and left him without a leg to stand on—oh no, not even close. Potter seemed to have made a fine art of it, perfected it to the point where he could likely do it in his sleep. He was that good—but it was that evening when it hurt the most.

"Listen, about yesterday . . ."

"It's okay, Malfoy. Forgotten, really." Potter had looked down at his shoes then, shrugged lightly before apparently deciding to dig the knife deeper and twist it. "We just did what we had to do, right?"

"Right."

"Good. So, er—" Potter's fingers flexed at is side, curling then uncurling in a mockery of Draco's memories. He had felt that same hand tracing the line of his jaw, making fists of his hair, and it had felt brilliant—it had felt so impossibly brilliant, "—see you around?" And this was Potter telling him that it was over— _they_ were over. Just like that.

Like it meant nothing.

Draco swallowed against the taste of bile in his mouth. He felt empty, as if his insides had been carved right out and he couldn't _breathe_ anymore. He still remembered lying awake late at night, listening to Potter's voice as he made up stories about the people on that map of his, as he chattered on, explaining some Muggle reference or other—and Draco never got most of them, didn't even care to know what they were, but still he'd listened. He remembered helping Potter with his Potions homework, trying to teach him to play wizard chess well enough to beat Weasley—not that Potter ever had, but it was the thought that counted.

Nearly four full months of memories in the room behind Potter, that were now worth nothing when all Potter could recall was doing what had to be done. Even the phrasing sounded callous.

Draco heard himself say, "Sure," in a voice that wasn't even his own—a voice that sounded far too weak to be his own—and that was that.

End of story.

He remembers every instant leading up to that moment with a blinding clarity, he remembers the exact second he looked into Potter's eyes and could no longer recognise the person behind them. But he doesn't know how long he stood there after Potter shut the door in his face.

His feet must have carried him back to the common room at some point. He knows this because Pansy was still there, thrilled and expectant with her 'Well?' and her questions, and Draco is not exactly sure what his answers were. All he knows is they made her roll her eyes.

"Cheer up, darling. It's not like he was your first."

"No," Draco said. _But I was his._

It rang true on more levels than one.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Tuesday, 15th September 1998**

 

"This is all your fault. This is all your bloody fault."

"Excuse me?" Potter halted his pacing to give Draco a look of such disbelief that, bloody hell, Draco really wanted to break his nose again. It had been quite relaxing the first time around, and besides, perhaps it'd make the pounding in his head grow quieter. Admittedly, it seemed far-fetched, but it wasn't as if he'd know unless he tried it. "How is any of this in any way my fault?"

"None of this would have happened if you hadn't pushed me into Longbottom's cauldron!"

Draco wouldn't have lurched awake in the middle of the Hospital Wing, with a mouth that tasted as if he'd swallowed a bucket of Thestral piss and a banging headache right between the eyes. As though he'd taken a particularly ill-tempered Bludger to the head.

"If you weren't such an arse all the time," Potter muttered, "then maybe I wouldn't have had to—"

"Yeah, yeah." Draco shakily rose to his feet. It was quite hard to maintain his dignity when he was still clutching his head like it was about to explode, but in all honesty, he thought he'd been doing a fairly good job. He was certainly doing a better job than Potter, who was just standing there with his arms crossed, looking for all the world like his soul had been sucked out. "Do feel free to bore me with your laments some other time, Potter. I'm out of here."

"You can't."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You can't leave," Potter explained, "that's part of the problem, actually."

Draco sneered. "Watch me."

It all worked fine at first: he made his way to the door, yanked it open and walked a couple of steps down the corridor, but it was right then, as victory was looming just out of reach, when he'd been on the verge of turning back to Potter and snidely saying, 'See? I told you I could leave,' that he felt it. A wall in front of him, a wall he couldn't actually see—transparent, but undeniably there. Hard air, impossible to penetrate.

"What the—"

"I told you that you wouldn't get very far," Potter's voice came through the doorway. "You seriously thought I hadn't tried that myself?"

"But . . ." Draco pressed his hand against the wall. It was still there. It wasn't going anywhere. It was tall enough that he couldn't even reach the end of it. "This cannot be happening," he mumbled, the beginnings of panic making his voice rise. "Where the hell is Pomfrey? Does she know what this is? Has she—has she told you?"

Potter shrugged. "Sort of. It's some sort of potion, apparently—Neville's potion. They just don't know what it was, not exactly."

Draco walked around, following the length of the wall—it appeared to be circular, it appeared to be built around Potter, and Draco had to fight back sobs, fight back hysterical laughter because Potter, Potter, Potter, why was everything always about him?

He was trapped. He was trapped in a room with Potter.

"She's in there right now," Potter said, pointing vaguely towards the office at the end of the infirmary. "Talking to McGonagall, I guess."

"Okay. So it's a potion. That's good though, isn't it? It means we just need a bezoar and then—then we can both walk out of here and go our separate—"

"Malfoy—"

"What?" Draco snapped. Forever trapped in Potter's vicinity. It would drive him insane; he could see it.

"Malfoy," Potter repeated slowly, as if talking to a very small child, "somehow, I don't think this counts as a poison."

Draco fell back on the bed. "Merlin," he said, "Merlin . . ."

"Yeah."

"They'll fix this though, won't they?" He lay back, staring up at the white ceiling. "Of course they'll fix this. They have to, they have to find a way to—they can't possibly leave us like this."

Potter snorted. "You keep telling yourself that."

Draco rolled onto his side to look at him full on. It was funny, he thought, he'd had the Dark Lord living in his home for a full year, he'd put up with the Carrows, mad Aunt Bella and that half-breed Fenrir, and one way or another managed to survive them all. But somehow, spending the rest of his life bonded to Harry Potter felt much, much scarier than all that.

It was one thing to hide your plans, your intentions, your _motives_ . . . it was a very different thing to hide your feelings twenty-four-seven.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 13th April 2001**

 

"So how is Potter these days?" Draco asks, his voice scratchy from a long morning of not speaking, of staring down at his notes and scribbling new ones underneath.

Pansy looks up at him. She chews thoughtfully. "I'm not telling you," she says, and then sticks her tongue out at him before taking another bite of her peach. "If you want to know, you'll just have to owl him and ask."

"I'd rather not owl the new Dark Lord, thank you very much."

"You keep saying that, but he's a Healer in training now, Draco. Hardly the right qualifications to become a Dark Lord of any kind."

"Says you."

"Says everyone," mutters Pansy. "And anyway, I should know, shouldn't I? I see him every day."

"But it's a trap! He's doing all those . . . all those good deeds—kissing babies and learning to mend bones and Merlin knows what else—but it's only so you can't see who he's become inside."

"Fine." Pansy sighs. "But if he's the new Dark Lord, why would you be asking about him anyway?" she asks, and Draco glares at her.

"You're a horrid flatmate. I hope you know that."

"Really now?"

"It's complicated, all right?"

Pansy takes another bite of her peach. "Mm-hmm."

"It just is, okay?" Draco snaps, but then he adds hesitantly, "You didn't see what he was like during our eighth year, and what he turned into after . . . you only saw bits of it, but you didn't see him in private—the way he acted around me . . ." He shakes his head. "You couldn't have known."

He stares at the clock. The hand that has Pansy's name on it is pointing towards 'LATE! LATE! LATE!' and he can feel her eyes on him all through it, as if she's trying to puzzle him out. The urge to break down and tell her everything—of baring his and Potter's sordid love story to her—is almost overwhelming for a minute there.

But then it's gone, just as it came.

"So . . ." He clears his throat. "I think you need to get back to St Mungo's."

Pansy's head snaps to the clock, her eyes widening. "Shit. Healer Kaur is going to tear me to pieces, I keep being late to our Mind-Healing practices . . ."

Draco shrugs. "It's not as if you want to be a Mind-Healer though. Technically, you just need to pass."

"Seriously though, you should owl Harry," Pansy calls back from the fireplace, "he's not nearly as bad as you think."

"Do not tell him I asked!" Draco yells, but it seems like he's too late as well. By the time he says that, Pansy has already left.

When she Floos later that evening to tell Draco she'll be missing dinner, Draco simply rolls his eyes. "Abandoning me yet again to go for a drink with your new Healer friends, are you?"

Pansy snorts. "Healer wannabes, actually, but yeah."

"Well then, have fun. I'll just stay here, bored out of my mind."

"You could come, you know? It's not like it's a private party or anything, besides, Harry will be there as—"

"Not a chance. Go now, buy your new best friend a drink."

"Aw, jealous, are you?" Pansy winks at him. "You know you'll always be my BFF."

Draco dares a little grimace back—it's not as if Pansy is going to think less of him; she knows him well enough. "I just wish you'd stay away from those Muggle acronyms."

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 2nd October 1998**

 

"Do you think they'll ever figure out a way to break the bond?" Draco asked, but Potter stayed silent.

It would have been easier if they'd had a sample of Longbottom's potion, Draco guessed, if Slughorn hadn't vanished it so quickly. If only they'd been able to study it.

"I don't know," Potter said a while later.

"They'll keep trying though, won't they? They won't—they _can't_ leave us like this."

Potter shrugged, sitting on the other end of the bed—just across from Draco. He was eating treacle tart again; Draco thought it was quite a marvel his teeth hadn't fallen off so far, what with the amount of golden syrup he must have ingested on a daily basis.

"Maybe," Potter said, "I don't know." His feet were barely inches from Draco's own. "I hope they do."

If only Draco moved his foot a tiny bit to the right—just a tiny bit—their ankles would be touching. He wondered if Potter's skin would be as warm as Draco imagined it. Everything about Potter was so hot, so lively, so full of energy, it just felt as though his skin should be as well. But then, what did he know?

"Me too," Draco told him, "me too," but he wasn't too sure he wasn't lying.

It had been true in the past, but right then, it felt like there was some sort of special magic between them. A kind of subtle energy Draco couldn't quite understand, but that kept pushing and pushing under his skin, pushing them closer, making Draco's heart beat faster whenever Potter was in the room—which was to say almost always, except when Potter was in the bathroom next door—and Draco thought . . . well, he didn't think it was the bond. He thought perhaps it had always been there, even before everything went wrong—before they both landed themselves in the Hospital Wing, before their potions accident. Only back then, Potter was never around for long.

When he looked back up, he could see Potter's mouth moving. Draco had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't even heard him speak, but Potter was still there, looking oddly amused in a way that could mean nothing good.

"What did you just say?"

"Were you just staring at my feet?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Potter," Draco scoffed.

Potter simply grinned around his fork before shovelling another bite of tart into his mouth.

"Seriously, what's up with you and that thing? You're _always_ eating treacle tart."

Potter shrugged again. "I like it. Besides, Winky keeps bringing them up here. I think . . . I think she misses Dobby."

"If only the Dark Lord had known all he needed to do to take you out of commission was to give you endless supplies of treacle tart . . ." Draco trailed off then, he pressed his lips together into a tight line—it was just a stupid comment, words he didn't think through, but he'd heard them now and he could see how they could be taken the wrong way. And that was what they all thought about him, wasn't it? That Draco wanted the Dark Lord to win—only they knew nothing.

They didn't know what it had been like, having the Dark Lord stationed in his family's home. They had never had to watch in despair as their parents were ordered around like servants, and while they might have occasionally gone to bed with the deep fear that they'd be murdered before they woke, there was no way for them to know that it'd been the exact same for Draco—every single night, he'd feared for his life. But they couldn't know that.

Still, Draco guessed that would be the end of his and Potter's truce, and for a moment, he was almost too afraid to look back up, to see the disgust in Potter's eyes. But much to his surprise, Potter simply laughed.

"Indeed, an easy win," he said, and Draco breathed out a sigh of relief. "Who would have thought you had a sense of humour?"

"You might have noticed if you'd ever bothered trying to talk to me."

"I might have talked to you, if you weren't so busy being a massive twat half the time."

"Fuck off," Draco said, but he was smiling. As soon as Potter looked away, he slid his foot a couple of inches to the right—just a couple of inches, just until it was barely brushing against Potter's.

Potter didn't move away.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 20th June 2002**

 

Draco feels oddly lost amongst so many people, many of whom he's been avoiding since leaving Hogwarts. He guesses he should have known. It's a party after all, and everywhere he looks there are drinks, people dancing and colourful lights, there are even several giant banners floating up above him—offensively flashy things reading 'Healers' Graduation Ceremony'.

All in all, Draco thinks it's rather fitting: whoever they paid to make their banners obviously needed to see a Healer, light pink and coffee brown schemes haven't been called fashionable since the late fifties. But, whatever.

"Malfoy," Granger greets him, "long time no see. I didn't know you'd be here."

"I came over with Pansy." And then she grabbed her camera and disappeared into the crowd. Draco is still wondering where the hell she went; surely she must have taken a million different photographs by now.

"Oh, that's right. She was in Harry's classes, wasn't she? Well, some of them anyway."

"Body Reading, I think, though perhaps Mind-Healing as well."

Granger nods distractedly. "And what are you up to these days? It's been ages since we last heard from you."

"Potions. I've been working on my thesis, so I haven't had much time to go out or—" Draco shrugs, "—socialise, I guess."

Granger smiles at him. "What's it about?" she asks.

"Variations on potions brewing, particularly when it comes to the use of eel eyes instead of newt's while brewing Dreamless Sleep Potion."

"You know, perhaps you ought to talk to Harry, he had to drink it several times during our—"

"That really won't be necessary. I've interviewed several people who—"

"Oh, look! There he is."

Fear takes Draco's heart faster than a Seeker on a Snitch, making it turn to ice in his chest. He wishes above all things to be able to fabricate a credible excuse, one that'll allow him to vanish before Potter gets there—he wishes to be able to do that, and to be able to do it fast. However, his mind is silent, his body perfectly still, and Potter is like that prophesied catastrophe Draco can never seem to avoid.

"Harry!" Granger calls.

"Well," Potter's voice comes over Draco's shoulder, "good to know you're still alive. To be honest, I was beginning to doubt it."

Draco slowly turns around. Potter is standing there, holding a beer in his hand, and even after all these years he still looks just as stunning as he always has in Draco's mind—a bit older, sure, but stunning all the same. Draco really, really wants to hate him for that, only he's never figured out how.

Potter smiles tightly at him. "You look good."  

Draco's heart crashes like the glacial shard it is. This is why he didn't want to come. This is why he'd told Pansy he'd do best to stay at home.

"Thanks," he manages, but the word burns on the way out.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Monday, 5th August 2002**

 

By the time Draco's second work week rolls around, he's pretty much convinced he knows everything there is to know about working with Harry Potter—namely, that working in the same building as Potter is a veritable nightmare, and that this version of Potter quite possibly thinks that Draco is his own personal potions expert.

Of course, Draco had known Potter worked at St Mungo's back when he first applied, he just hadn't expected him to _always_ be around. St Mungo's has several floors and whatnot, and really, what are the chances of Potter constantly showing up at his? So there was that. And then there was the fact that the job seemed like a good opportunity to clear his name.

Obviously, Draco applied. But now he thinks he should have known better.

He's so bloody anxious all the time—whenever his shoulder brushes against someone else's in the corridors, whenever the door to his lab slides open. He's always terrified he'll turn around to find Potter staring back at him. Those unwavering green eyes are always on him, following his every movement like a Nundu tracking its prey.

It's ridiculous, and quite possibly driving Draco spare, and it seriously doesn't help the lack of control he feels over his life. Or the sense that his heart is going to stop functioning whenever Potter so much as addresses him—and Draco hates that, he hates it with a burning passion, but sadly, that never seems enough to stop Potter.

"Malfoy," Potter calls from the door, "would you mind taking look at this—"

Draco drops the flask he'd been holding. He watches it fall slowly to the ground. He doesn't even react in time to cast a Levitation Charm before it crashes, falling to pieces before his eyes.

"Merlin! What's up with you?" Potter asks, casting a wandless _Reparo_ at the remains of Draco's work. "Malfoy?" He places a hand on Draco's shoulder, shaking him, not roughly, but insistently. "Draco?"

"Don't touch me!" Draco snaps, and Potter jumps back almost instantly. "Just . . . just don't."

For a moment there, Potter looks almost as if he'd been hexed, and Draco can't bear the injured look in his eyes, he can't bear being the one who's put it there. He can't bear how much he wants to apologise, as if all of this were his fault, how much he wants to . . . he's not even sure what he wants anymore and he _hates_ that. He fucking hates that.

He has a job to do. He ought to be thinking about potions, about how to best brew them to increase their efficiency, and definitely not about how good Potter looks in his ridiculous lime green scrubs, or about how soft Potter's stupid hair felt against his fingers back in eighth year.

"Just—" Draco takes a deep breath, "—just leave me the fuck alone."

"Fine," Potter holds his hands up, "fine. I'm sorry for even wondering if you were all right."

It's right then that Draco decides it might be best to ignore Potter for the rest of his time here, to stop looking his way whenever he's near. Of course, he fails miserably not even ten minutes after reaching that resolution—but none of that keeps him from noticing how Potter has definitely stopped looking back. For now, at least.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Monday, 9th September 2002**

 

It doesn't last forever.

Eventually, Potter grows tired of avoiding Draco and goes back to Draco's lab. He sits near the back of the room, talking to himself as Draco works, _criticising_ Draco's work as if he knew anything about potions. Draco is not entirely sure how to feel about that—amused, occasionally, but mostly just annoyed out of his mind. Over the past few weeks, he'd grown quite fond of the bittersweet oblivion that was being no one in Potter's book; at least it let Draco do his job. Potter's commentary, on the other hand . . .

"You're supposed to crush them with a silver dagger," Potter says. Or, "You're supposed to wash them before you boil them," and Draco just sighs. He sighs, and kindly doesn't point out Potter is obviously getting it confused with the Sopophorous bean, and that in any case, it's not as if he's making Draught of Living Death, so it doesn't exactly matter.

Still, he feels endlessly thankful when Pansy walks in, and all in all, quite proud of himself for not having throttled Potter when he had the chance.

"Merlin, Harry," Pansy says, "take it easy, will you?"

Potter's eyes flare up in anger. "I am taking it easy."

"Well, then give the boy a break," Pansy tells him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, let's go get some coffee."

"I wouldn't actually need to say anything if he took his work seriously," Potter snaps back. Pansy's hand is gone in an instant.

"I do take my work seriously," Draco says. His voice comes out strained, but at least he's managed to keep the 'you irksome little prat' he'd been planning to add near the end a silent one. He figures he ought to congratulate himself for that.

"You take nothing seriously," Potter snarls. "Nothing!"

Draco's breath is coming faster. Pansy is still standing near the door, but now she's biting down on her lip, looking back and forth between them as though she's sure they're going to start throwing hexes any minute—and Draco doesn't _know_ if they are, but Merlin, he wants to. He wants to curse Potter. He wants to break his stupid nose again, but somehow, he manages to calm down just enough to say, "You can't actually know that, Potter. You don't know me anymore."

"If you did, if you really were ever serious about things, you wouldn't have—" Potter presses his lips into a thin line. "Never mind," he finishes, turning towards the door.

Pansy stays behind after he's gone, throwing Draco worried glances until he rolls his eyes and tells her, "I'm fine, really."

"The new Dark Lord, huh? You know, I never understood why you'd call him that until just now."

Draco somehow manages to give her a small smile, but still, she doesn't seem entirely convinced he's all right when she leaves, and he's pretty sure he knows why. She's still his flatmate, after all. He knows she's heard him rant about Potter over a dozen times, about how unbearable Potter is at work and how determined Draco is to knock that contemptuous look off Potter's face. She must know Draco is determined to do his job properly. That he's determined to prove that he's better than Potter this time around—better than Potter thinks he is, anyway.

Potter stays out of his way through the rest of the day, but drops by his lab again once his work day is over. He sits on one of the long tables near the door, watching quietly as Draco checks his potions and pours his Antidote to Uncommon Poisons into tiny vials.

Draco stays silent as well. He can feel Potter's gaze on his back all through it, but he doesn't want to stir up any more trouble. Particularly not at work.

"I'm sorry," Potter says at last. "I didn't mean that, what I said to you earlier—I do know you take your work seriously. I was just . . ." He trails off, gesturing vaguely.

Draco contemplates nodding and letting it go, only he _needs_ to know what Potter meant. "What were you going to say earlier?"

"Earlier?"

"Earlier, when you broke off," Draco replies. "What were you actually going to say?"

Potter jumps down from the desk and makes his way over to Draco, slowly.

"If you took things seriously—" Potter's voice cracks near the end. "If you took things seriously, you never would have broken off our bond the way you did, back in eighth year."

Draco is stunned into silence. He'd always assumed that was what Potter wanted back then, that _that_ was the reason he'd been so cold to Draco after their one night together, but now . . .

"Like it meant nothing," Potter adds quietly. "Like _I_ meant nothing to you."

Now he's not so sure anymore. For a moment there, he's torn between feeling wrecked and elated, because surely this must mean Potter cared about him back then, that he cared about Draco at least a little—only that was then and . . . this is now, and now Potter is accusing him of breaking things off as if Draco had done that on purpose, as if Draco had _known_ their actions would cause the bond to break.

"Do you know what the worst thing is about all this?" Potter goes on. Now that the ice is gone from his eyes, he looks so much like the Potter Draco remembers from their eighth year, it's almost uncanny. Disconcerting. "I don't even know what I did to make you run away like—"

"No," Draco interjects. "No, I wasn't the one who ran away. I wasn't the one who went around making promises I couldn't keep, you don't get to blame me for—"

"You walked away first!" Potter snaps, throwing his hands up. "You broke things off first and you won't even explain why you did that. You're such a self-absorbed twat, I don't even know how to—"

"Shut up!" Draco screams. His breathing is coming hard, sticking in his throat and burning in his lungs, and Potter is so close to him—so close Draco can feel his body heat on his skin, close enough that he can feel Potter's breath against his face, _far too close_. "Shut the fuck up! You know nothing . . ."

Draco tries to back off, but there's a wall behind him. There's nowhere to go and it's too warm with Potter near him and he hates it, he hates how Potter makes him feel even now. He hates himself for feeling like shit when _Potter_ is the one who's a complete and total prick, not Draco. He's the boy who had Draco's heart in his hands and crushed it, the boy who walked away from Draco when he most needed him. And Draco shouldn't have to deal with any of this anymore. He shouldn't have to put up with Potter's accusations years after the fact.

But he can't move away. He can't Apparate away inside St Mungo's.

"I hate you," Draco whispers, "I fucking hate you."

Potter's eyes narrow. Draco doesn't actually know who moves first. All he knows is that they're suddenly kissing— _kissing_ —and that Potter's mouth is harsh against his own. Ruthless. Draco presses his lips against Potter's even more brutally, and just like that, Potter's lips part for him. Potter's tongue glides forwards, effortlessly into Draco's mouth. It's funny how everything between them keeps turning into a competition. Even now. Even this. It's funny how he's just as determined to win this one as he was all those times before. It's funny how Potter is as well.

He pulls Potter closer, makes the kiss deeper. He can feel the hard shape of Potter's cock where it's pressed against his thigh, and Draco pushes his palm against it and swallows Potter's moan when it comes—Potter's cock is thick and hot against his hand, so hot even through layers of clothing.

But then Potter pulls back, forcefully pushing Draco into the wall. His eyes are dark, an odd mix of anger and want turning them a cloudy shade of green, and Draco feels himself grow even harder as Potter wipes a hand across his face.

Potter huffs then, his face contorting into an ugly grimace before he tears his eyes from Draco's. He bolts from the room. Draco stares at his leaving back before looking down at his own hands. He's trembling. He's not exactly sure what just happened, but he's trembling, alone in his lab, with a massive hard-on. At work. And he's got no idea what to do to keep this from happening again. He's got no idea how to get it to happen again either.

He's got no idea what he wants.

Fortunately, he never needs to figure himself out, because that's the last time Potter ever talks to him at work. Whenever their paths cross in the corridors, Potter simply looks down and away, and he even goes as far as to send Pansy to fetch his potions—which is so ludicrous it borders on pathetic, Draco thinks. But it's also a way out.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Tuesday, 1st October 2002**

 

"I honestly don't understand," Pansy tells him, shaking her head.

Draco looks up from where he's lying on their couch. "Why he's such an arse all the time?" At Pansy's nod, he adds, "I'd say that's just who he is now, new Dark Lord and all, but I know you're not a big fan of my theories."

"Because it's just around you! He doesn't treat anyone else that way, it's just you, and I can't for the life of me figure out why he'd be such an arse to you," Pansy replies. "He forgave me for trying to turn him in to the Dark Lord, he even saved your life, for Merlin's sake! And you used to get along just fine back in eighth year, and now . . . now you can't even stand being in the same room together."

Draco shrugs. "Maybe. But it's been ages since eighth year, Pans," he says softly.

"It's madness, that's what it is! It's just—look, all I'm saying is that people don't go from being linked at the hip to hating each other in a matter of seconds."

"They do when there's magic involved," Draco counters. "Besides, need I remind you that we went from hating each other to being linked at the hip, as you so nicely put it, as well? Because it happened just before what you just mentioned, and yet—"

"Yes, all right, and that wasn't supposed to happen either. I get that. But my point here is—"

"Pans!" Draco stops her. "Just . . . let it go." He sighs, stretching his arms over his head. "That's how it happened, and anyway, it's far too late to change it now."

Draco isn't even sure he wants to anymore. He used to miss Potter so much, but he never missed him the way he is now, all anger and resentment and pretending Draco doesn't exist. He misses the version of him he got to know back then, the one whose laughs were contagious and whose smiles weren't all tight around the edges. The one he'd call Harry. But there's none of that in today's Potter—nothing for Draco to miss.

Sometimes though, on the rare occasion when Potter looks his way, Draco does think of hexing Potter, of punching his nose in until it breaks all over again—and yet, he never does. But every time, he feels his trousers get a bit too tight below the hips, and he has to excuse himself to pay a visit to the loo.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Tuesday, 20th October 1998**

 

"Say, what will you do once school is over?"

Draco turned around in his bed, squinting in Harry's direction. It was dark, but if he tried hard enough he could still make out the contour of Harry's face—his cheeks, his nose, the strong angle of his jaw.

"I haven't given it much thought," he said. What _could_ he do would have been a much better question; it's not like they'd ever hire him in the Ministry, not after the part he'd played during the war. He might not have done much, and he guessed he could count himself lucky to have had Harry speaking up for him in the trials. And yet, he wasn't convinced that would ever be enough to erase his guilt—it certainly didn't seem enough to those still writing about him in the _Prophet_.

"I've been thinking I'd like to become a Healer."

Draco blinked, startled out of his thoughts. "I thought you had always wanted to be an Auror."

"Well, yeah, I wanted that, at some point. It's just, I'm not so sure anymore—I mean, I don't want following dark wizards to be the rest of my life. I know it's what people expect of me but . . ." Harry opened his mouth and closed it, and then, just when Draco thought he'd given up on whatever else he'd been going to say, opened it again to add, "I don't know. To be honest, I think I've done my bit by now."

Draco nodded slowly, even though he was sure Harry couldn't see it—not in the dark, especially not while not wearing his glasses. "So now you'd like to try something new?"

"Yeah. And healing . . . well, it's a way to restore some of the damage the war has done," Potter replied. "Not that it matters now. I mean, it's not like I could go to training while we're still—" he gestured awkwardly between them, "—you know."

"Yeah." But maybe Harry could. Maybe Draco could follow Harry into training—he'd always been good at potions after all, and they were also used for healing. There might be something there he could do. And in any case, they'd have to take him if he were still tied to Harry, wouldn't they?

Draco smiled into his pillow, a flicker of hope burning bright in his chest. For the first time since this whole thing had started, Draco couldn't honestly say he minded being bonded to Harry. They were better together than they ever were apart.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 11th October 2002**

 

Draco never talks about their kiss in the lab. He never talks about the scent of disinfectant potions Potter carries in his clothes, or about how Draco's head swam with lust as he felt Potter's lips move against his.

Sure, he spends most of his nights thinking about it, but he doesn't mention that to Pansy—he never mentions that to _anyone_ because it's far too embarrassing and far too complicated to discuss. He's not entirely sure what he wants more: to break Potter's ridiculously straight nose, or to throw him down on the ground and have his way with him, until neither of them can do much more than moan into each other's mouths. And it's a mess. It's all a bloody mess, so he never mentions it to Pansy.

But despite that, he does mention Potter—like today, when he comes back home in such a dreadful mood that Pansy actually asks him about it. "Merlin, what's up with you? You've been looking like a crazed Dementor all day, I swear I've been tempted to buy you a black cloak just to complete the look."

Draco turns his head towards her. "Potter is a complete bastard and I hate his guts to the moon and back," he says swiftly, then takes a large swig of the firewhisky he's been nursing for the past half-hour, and holds his glass out for a refill.

Pansy raises an eyebrow. "All right," she murmurs, reaching for the bottle of Odgen's Old. "Is this about him being the new Dark Lord? Because I already told you what I thought about that."

Draco throws a cushion at her face, which she somehow manages to avoid even in her slightly buzzed state. He wonders if he should try to explain to Pansy how exactly Potter makes him feel, or if she's just going to laugh it off—and let's face it, she's probably going to laugh it off, but Draco is so desperate by now that he's not even sure he cares.

"I don't think he's the new Dark Lord," he says at last. "Not really, anyway."

Pansy sits back on the cushion he's just thrown at her and turns to him, so Draco goes on, "When Potter . . . when we were bonded to each other back in eighth year."

"Yeah?"

"He was just . . . he meant everything to me." Draco swallows. "Whenever he laughed, whenever we sat by his bed late at night playing wizard chess, he made me feel light inside, like I'd be able to fly without a broom if I wanted to. Sometimes—sometimes I even wanted him to stay away from me, though of course that was impossible while bonded to each other. He was just . . . horribly confusing. I felt so confused all the time."

Pansy's eyes narrow. "Okay," she says, "I think I could see that much, back then."

"No, you couldn't," Draco retorts. "He used to make terrible jokes about Muggle things I never understood, you know? And I still _liked_ them, even when I had no idea what they were about—because he was funny, I guess, or perhaps because he looked so happy then. I don't know." He takes a deep breath before saying, "And then one day, he was just . . . gone. From one day to the next, he was gone."

Draco laughs sharply. He feels ridiculous. This whole thing feels ridiculous, and he's not even sure he's making sense. It's only when he looks up and Pansy is just watching him, brows furrowed, that it strikes him he might be making _too much sense_ instead.

He sighs, mumbling, "And I hate looking at him now and knowing what he meant to me back then. I just . . . I hate knowing that he's no longer that, that he'll never be that person again."

Pansy looks away. She reaches for the firewhisky, drinking straight from the bottle.  "Merlin," she says, "Merlin . . ."

"What?"

"You didn't just fuck him, Draco," she tells him slowly, as if she were disclosing one of the great truths of the universe, "you actually went and fell in love with him."

"You know," she says a while later, "at the time I thought it was just your pride that got hurt. Like, no one had ever dumped you before Harry, or something."

"And now you don't?"

"And now I don't."

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Saturday, 31st October 1998**

 

"Come on, please? Just this once."

Draco blinked, looking down at where Harry's fingers were pulling at his jumper. They were stretching the sleeve over his hand, and just a few months ago Draco would have punched him for that. He was momentarily puzzled by how comfortable they'd become around each other, and that was probably the reason why all Draco managed to say was, "You must be mental."

"We're just going to the new pub across from the Hog's Head, and it'll be just for a while, we're not even going to be there that long . . ."

"But all your friends hate me," Draco spluttered. "Merlin, they'll probably try to murder me while I'm there!"

"They don't hate you, not really."

Draco raised an eyebrow. He wasn't even going to try to dignify that with a response.

"Fine, okay, perhaps they used to hate you. Probably," Harry admitted. "But look, it's not like they're going to hex you while I'm there. I'm still bonded to you, it'd be a bother to have to levitate you all the way back to school."

"I still don't think it's a—" Draco started, but Harry was faster, "Please?" he begged, gazing up at Draco with wide eyes. "Please, I haven't been able to go to Hogsmeade with them for months now, it'd be nice to—"

"Fine, I'll go," Draco said, giving in, and Harry threw his fist into the air. "But you'll owe me for this."

"Sure," Harry said quickly, "whatever you want, it's yours."

Draco thought about all the things he wanted from Harry—his cloak, his map, his friendship . . . a kiss. Not that he'd ever ask for one, but hell, yes, he wanted one.

"I'll hold you to that."

"I know." Harry grinned back at him. "I'm counting on it."

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Thursday, 19th November 1998**

 

"It's a nice film," Harry said, "well, Hermione said so anyway. She and Ron went to watch it last week, during the . . . well, when they were supposed to be in Hogsmeade."

"How come you didn't drag me along this time?"

Harry snorted.

"What? I thought—didn't you say Muggles did this sort of thing for fun?"

"It was a date, Draco," Harry said quietly, and Draco felt his eyes grow wider. A date, between Granger and the Weasel—yes, all right, he should have seen that coming, especially with the way they'd been hanging all over each other during meals.

"Right." Draco twirled his tie around his finger. "Still, you must have been to this cinema place in the past, right? I mean, didn't you grow up around Muggles?"

Harry laughed, and Draco smiled a bit too, right up until Harry said, " _With_ Muggles, actually. But, er, they didn't like me much."

"What do you mean?"

"I never really got to see a film in the cinema. My Muggle relatives, they didn't like the idea of magic. They rarely took me anywhere, and I did—I did watch a few films on the telly, but that's it."

"It's not the same?"

Potter walked up to his bed, sitting down next to Draco. "No, I don't think it is," he said wistfully. "I think I'd like to go, someday."  

"What was it about?" Draco asked. "This film Granger and the Weasel went to, I mean."

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he poked his finger into Draco's side. " _Weasley_ ," he said, emphatically, and Draco rolled his eyes. "It was about a violin, a perfect, red-coloured violin everyone wants to get their hands on. But—" his voice lowered, "—there's a twist."

Draco waited. He waited until he could no longer take it, and then asked, "Well? You're not going to tell me what it is?"

"The twist?"

Draco nodded.

"It brings bad luck to its owners. The violin . . . it's been varnished with the violinmaker's wife's blood. That's supposed to be the reason it's unlucky, why it brings tragedy into everyone's lives when they own it."

Harry laughed, and Draco joined in his laughter—but deep inside, he felt hollow. He wondered if that wasn't exactly what Potter was to him. His very own cursed violin, the one who'd eventually ruin his life.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 18th October 2002**

 

Draco doesn't often want to contemplate his thoughts where Potter is concerned, but right now, he'd really like to cast an _Avada Kedavra_ his way and be done with him. It's absurd how much he wants that. In fact, Draco is quite sure he's never wanted anything this much.

Potter seems to have reverted to that thing he used to do a few months back, criticising Draco's brewing skills as if he were just that much better at potion-making. And Draco . . . Draco has just about had it.

"You're stirring clockwise, Malfoy," Potter points out. "You're supposed to be stirring counter-clockwise first, then clockwise twice, and finally, counter-clockwise for about—"

"Really now? And since when do you know anything about potions?"

"I did study Healing," Potter says tightly, "and I know enough to know that potion you're trying to—"

"Well, I did study Potions, and I know this particular potion will work better when brewed this way."

Potter huffs, looking away. "It'd better have, it's for my patients. Why did you have to go with one of your stupid variations anyway? Why not just brew the normal thing and be done with—"

"Because this will work far better," Draco grits out. He holds his breath, counting to ten in his head as the blood-red veil of anger clouding his vision melts away. "You want it to be perfect, right? Well, this is as perfect as it gets."

Potter's jaw tightens. "Right. And I should just believe that, even though I've never actually tried that particular—"

"Yes, you bloody well should," Draco snaps, and for a moment, he almost wants to laugh at the scene they must be making, fists clenched tight, eyes flashing with rage over something as meaningless as a Blood-Replenishing Potion. Only none of this is funny, nothing about Potter having the nerve to come into his lab doubting his work skills to his face is even remotely funny. "See, apparently, your boss believed it when she hired me. If you have any issues with her choices, I'd suggest discussing them with her."

"But then again, my boss has no idea what an arrogant, deceptive prick you are, does she?"

That's all it takes for Draco to give in.

Just like that, he feels his hand flying forwards, crashing against Potter's nose in a twisted repeat of the incident near the beginning of their sixth year, the same incident he's been reminiscing about for months whenever Potter got on his wrong side at work. He feels the bones crack against his fist. He sees Potter falling, slowly, a steady stream of blood turning his mouth red, red, red, and Draco doesn't know what to think about this, he has no idea what to do about it, how to fix this, because how is this not messed up?

All he knows is Potter is curled up at his feet, bleeding. He knows that, and he knows he's half-hard, and that none of this is anywhere close to normal.

Hours later, once Potter's nose has been fixed and all the blood has been spelled clean, once Potter is finally done getting praised—over his _patience_ of all things, his patience, as if he had any—and Draco has been forced to sit through a long sermon on work ethics from his boss, he's finally on the way back to his lab.

"Weirdly Muggle, coming from you," Potter tells him, rather out of the blue. His mouth is twitching at the corners, as if he found this whole thing hilarious for some mad reason Draco can't quite ascertain. "I'd have expected a spell before a punch to the face, to be honest. But then again, it's not like it's the first time you've done this . . ."

Indeed, Draco seems to have a hard time focusing on Potter these days without fixating on his nose. Or his mouth. Or his stupidly green eyes. As Potter chuckles next to him over something that still escapes him, Draco finds himself sliding a hand around his neck and guiding Potter's head closer to his own, until they're both breathing the same air.

Potter's muscles feel tense under Draco's hand, but they soften marginally as his mouth brushes Potter's, and a lot more when his lips part. Draco does his best to pour everything he's felt these past few months into this kiss—all his hate, all his anger, all the love Pansy claims he feels. He thinks, when he pulls away, that he must have done a fairly good job—Potter is just standing there, panting, looking for all the world like he's just been handed a puzzle he's not sure he can solve.

Draco clears his throat.

"This is just . . . insane," Potter says.

"No—" Draco snorts, "—you think?"

Potter smiles a small smile at him, and for a moment there, Draco feels so aroused, so desperately aroused it's almost surreal, and all he wants to do is bend closer for a second kiss—and likely a third and a fourth and a fifth.

Instead, he picks up his coat and heads towards the Floo.

That night, Draco lies in bed tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning. He can't sleep. He tries to, but he keeps seeing Potter's face whenever his eyes fall shut. He keeps seeing Potter looking up at him, with his lips parted and moist. He keeps seeing him spread out below him on his eighth year bed, thrusting upwards into Draco, and deep down, Draco knows he's completely screwed.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Monday, 21st October 2002**

 

"I could ask to have a different potions expert assigned to my orders and that'd be perfectly fine," Potter tells him when he drops by to pick up his potions. He seems so intense as he says it, so focused.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Well, why haven't you?"

"I mean that. I could. In fact, I could probably have you sacked—they did ask me if I wanted to press charges after your stunt the other day."

"Is that a threat?" Draco grits out.

"No, I'm just telling you," Potter says. "Just so you know that actions can have consequences, particularly at work."

Draco gapes at his back as he turns to leave.

 _Oh, so it's a favour_ , he thinks, _a fucking favour_ , and it hurts, it hurts so much. It hurts because Draco did have to work hard to land this job, and because it's true that Potter could have him fired. But most importantly, it hurts because Draco still remembers the warmth of Potter's ankle next to his back in eighth year, and he remembers how badly he'd wanted Potter to feel the same way. He remembers with remarkable vividness how he spread his legs for Potter back then, how he sank down on his cock, nervous like the virgin he wasn't. And he remembers how Potter never actually returned his feelings.

That evening, Draco asks Pansy, "Say, do you think I—"

"Sorry, dear, can't talk right now," she yells from the bathroom. "I'm so ridiculously late, Blaise is probably going to rip my head off as soon as he sees me."

"You're having dinner with Blaise?"

"Yeah," Pansy says, kissing his cheek, "but we'll talk as soon as I get back, okay?"

"It's fine, Pans. It wasn't all that important anyway." Draco smiles weakly. "Go, now. Have fun."

When he tries to wank himself to sleep that night, Potter laying naked next to him is all he can picture. "No, no, no," Draco whispers hysterically to himself, "bloody hell, fuck me," because he can see Potter's eyelids drooping as he pulls slowly at his cock. Because it's the memory of Potter's lips against his own what finally pushes Draco over the edge. Because he comes all over his hand while thinking about Potter, who could have had him fired earlier this month. Because, Merlin, he needs help.

Come morning, Draco thinks, he'll hand in his resignation.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Tuesday, 22nd October 2002**

 

Draco never expects to hear Granger's voice coming out of their Floo room, but that's undoubtedly what he's hearing. He pauses, his fingers hovering right above the door knob as an uneasy feeling builds up in his chest.

"Oh, come on, Harry, it can't actually be—"

"It's my fault," Potter says quietly, and Draco moves still closer to the door, pressing his face against it in an effort to hear better—he wishes he had an Extendable Ear, but sadly, this is the best he can do. "It's all my bloody fault."

"I know you two weren't really getting along," Granger says soothingly, "but still, I doubt that's why he's leaving. There must be more to it."

"I told him—" Potter hesitates. "I told him I could have him fired if I wanted to—I told him . . . and then he went and handed in his resignation, how is that not my fault?"

Granger says nothing. Draco can hear Potter's hard breathing through the door.

"I fucked up," Potter says. He sounds distressed. "I fucked up badly, I was just so angry at him all the time and now—now he's leaving."

Draco takes a step back. He's too tired for this. He's so tired of dealing with Harry, and he can always leave through the Floo room in the floor below. When he gets home though, there's a tiny owl waiting by the window; it's carrying one of those small flat disks Muggles make, titled _The Red Violin_ , and a measly piece of parchment torn off one of their prescription forms. _I'm sorry_ , it reads.

It's unsigned, but Draco doesn't need a signature to know who it's come from.

He turns it around and quickly scribbles, _Why on_ earth _would you be sending me this now? I don't even have a telly_. But then thinks better of it. There's no way he'll ever be rid of Potter if he keeps answering, so he crumples the parchment instead before setting it on fire. He sends the owl away. He spends the rest of his afternoon trying to drink himself silly.

Pansy knocks on his door when she gets home. "Draco," she says quietly, "may I come in?"

Draco buries his face in his pillow, but he can still hear the door slide open and Pansy's nervous steps as she walks closer to his bed. She sits beside him, running a hand through his hair.

"How are you?" she asks.

"Pans," Draco mumbles, "Pans, I quit."

"I know that, you idiot. We do work in the same building."

"I just couldn't stand it anymore," Draco says, and he's embarrassed by how desperate his voice sounds. "I couldn't stand _him_."

"Shh," she shushes him, lying next to him on the bed. "It's okay. You'll get over this," she whispers, "you'll move on."

Draco certainly hopes he will, and deep down, he knows it's not the first time this has happened. But this time, he knows getting over Potter is going to be much, much harder.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Wednesday, 15th January 2003**

 

Shockingly enough, life has been going pretty well for Draco since he left his position at St Mungo's. He's been working at Slug & Jiggers Apothecary for almost two months now, and he's quite happy with the job he's been doing. His boss seems fairly unbiased when it comes to the part Draco played in the war, even going as far as stepping in for him when any of his clients give him a hard time.

In all honesty, Draco thinks he'd like to stay there. It's a more challenging job than the one he had at St Mungo's, and he doesn't have to deal with Potter there.

Except.

"Draco?"

Draco's fingers tighten around the flask he'd been holding. It's been months since Potter last called him by his first name, but Draco could recognise that voice with his eyes closed. He turns around, letting his professional salesman mask slide over his face.

"How may I help you?"

"Er, I don't really . . ." Draco looks at Potter. He's still wearing his lime-coloured scrubs, though judging by the time it is, he must have been on his way home. His hair is tousled, falling artlessly around his face, and yet he still looks just as gorgeous as he always has in Draco's mind. "Pansy told me you were working here now."

"I see." _That cow_ , Draco thinks, _that meddlesome, interfering cow_. She knows how Potter makes him feel, she knows he's been trying to get over this, but she's still given Potter the chance to drop by Draco's shop whenever he wants to.

"I think . . ." Potter pauses, nervously biting his lip. "We need to talk. At least I'd like to talk to you, if that's okay."

Draco wants to say no, he really wants to, but he's stunned silent by how much this Potter sounds like the one he got to know during their eighth year. Apparently, that's all Potter needs to go on. "Please?" he begs, reaching out to touch Draco's hand.

"Fine," Draco says tiredly. "Not here though, I'm supposed to be at work."

"That's all right, it doesn't have to be right now," Potter says quickly. "Just . . . give me your address and I'll Floo you?"

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Draco mumbles. But still, Potter looks desperate enough that Draco winds up grabbing a roll of parchment from under the counter. He hastily writes down his address and hands it to Potter, and Potter thanks him before he leaves.

Draco watches, somewhat dazedly, as Potter walks out of his shop. He has a feeling he won't be getting much done for what's left of the day—which, thankfully, isn't much.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 17th January 2003**

 

Pansy answers the Floo call when it comes. "Harry? I thought you didn't have this—" Draco hears her says, and starts making his way to the sitting room, "—sure I'll . . . I'll let him know."

"Er, hi," Potter says nervously as Draco steps into the room.

"Hello," Draco greets him, pressing his lips together to hold back a smile. He can see Pansy leaning against the kitchen entrance from where he stands, blatantly eavesdropping, not even having the sense to look embarrassed.

"I was just wondering if you'd like to hang out tonight."

"Can't, sorry. We're going to Blaise's birthday and it's invitation only," Draco replies. He can tell Pansy is still gaping at him from the kitchen, likely because he's on the Floo with his school-time enemy—who was sort of his boyfriend for a day back in eighth year, who's now back to being his enemy—and they're actually just . . . chatting. Like old friends would. "Tomorrow, maybe?"

It's been two days since since Potter sought him out at work, and Draco has been feeling kind of twitchy ever since—but all in all, he thinks he's doing a fairly good job of covering that up.

"Sure. Is seven okay? At the pub across from the Hog's Head?"

Draco nods. "I can be there at seven," he says, before bidding Potter goodbye and ending the call. He can hear Pansy tapping her foot by the door.

"So?"

"He told me he wanted to talk the other day." Draco shrugs carelessly. "I guess we'll be talking."

"Well, thank fuck for that . . ."

Draco groans, burying his face in his hands. "Just admit you engineered this whole thing."

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 20th November 1998**

 

"You know," Draco said, leaning his head against Harry's shoulder, "I've never been to the cinema either."

"I figured that much, you didn't even know what a telly was a few weeks ago."

Draco smiled, letting his eyes fall shut as Harry's fingers ran softly through his hair. He had no idea why Harry had taken to doing this, but it felt absolutely brilliant, even though it did make Draco want him more. He stood no chance there anyway. As far as he knew, Harry wasn't even into blokes.

"I could take you," Harry suggested. "I mean, it'd have to be during one of our Hogsmeade weekends, obviously, but I'm sure we could find a way to sneak out. Even with the bond still keeping us together, I'm sure we could Side-Along . . ."

"Is this your weird way of asking me out on a date?" Draco quipped, only to instantly regret his words.

He knew Harry was as straight as they came—even if the way he behaved around Draco had made him doubt that now and again. He knew that, and he had no idea why he'd even said those words when he knew the answer would just hurt.

"No," Harry said, but then added, "I mean, not unless you want me to."

"So . . ." Draco licked his lips, looking away. He could do this. Some risks were simply worth taking. "What if I did want you to? What would you actually do then?"

"Take you on that date, of course. We could go to the cinema. We could even go watch _The Red Violin_ if you wanted to."

Draco blinked. He pushed himself up on his thighs, moving to straddle Harry. He felt light-headed, so light-headed he could have sworn he was drunk—drunk with the knowledge that he was doing something unbearably stupid, making the one mistake that would condemn him forever. But somehow, Harry wasn't pushing him away. Harry was just holding his waist, rubbing his thumbs along Draco's hipbones.

"Is that a promise? Because I'll hold you to it if it is."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm a Gryffindor, Draco. We generally keep our promises."

Draco moved closer then, he moved until their lips were barely inches from each other. "So do Slytherins," he whispered, "we just like to call them threats."

Harry seized his head in both hands and kissed him.

Later that night, as everything inside Draco tightened, as his world melted into a blur of want and need and _harder_ while he arched up, wrapping his legs tightly around Harry's firm hips, Draco realised he would have gladly traded half his gold for this—the feeling of Harry's hips rocking up into him as his arse clenched around Harry's cock. But this . . . it wasn't all he wanted from Harry.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Saturday, 8th March 2003**

 

They've met for drinks a few times by now. They've talked about their jobs, Potter's new owl—who's apparently a bit of a menace—and their friends, and it's been shockingly pleasant. Pleasant enough that they've kept agreeing to do this.

But still, Draco's never told anyone about it. He's trying to be more cautious this time around, and besides, he guesses Potter hasn't told any of his friends either. Draco sees Longbottom—who's shockingly still friends with Potter, despite the whole bonding fiasco—and one of the Weasley twins rather regularly at work, and none of them have yet threatened to turn his head into a cabbage. Draco guesses that must mean they don't know.

Pansy did ask him how it had gone after the first time, but Draco had simply shrugged, unwilling to give too much away. He guesses she must have thought it went wrong. Draco, on the other hand, thinks it went all too well.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Saturday, 5th April 2003**

 

Pansy is sitting next to him on the couch, playing wizard chess as they often do on rainy days, when she mentions—hesitantly—that she'll be hanging out with Potter and a few of their Healer friends the following evening. It's right then when Draco realises he might be keeping far too many secrets from her. He's been seeing Potter for over two months now—and even though he's still being careful, even though they haven't even slept in the same bed so far, there's no way he could deny that that's the way things are heading.

"I know," he says. "Potter told me last night."

"I knew it! I knew you'd been meeting with Harry!"

Draco splutters. "How could you possibly have known that?"

"I might have noticed you were much busier than you used to be, so either you'd been meeting with him or you were doing something illegal," Pansy says, and she looks so smug all Draco can do is glare, frozen as he is with a chess piece in his hand. "And by the way," she adds, "if you _were_ doing something illegal, I'm rather offended not to have been invited."

"What kind of—how did you even come up with that?"

Pansy shrugs. "Don't blame me, you're the one who's been acting weirdly. You were even humming some Muggle song earlier, while cooking—I mean, Muggle songs, Draco? For Merlin's sake, you don't even have a radio . . ."

"So? Maybe I'd heard it at work—"

"And since I can perfectly remember finding out last year you'd been madly in love with Potter back at Hogwarts—which, by the way, you hid much, much better than this—I figured you must be hanging out with him."

Draco raises an eyebrow.

"Look," Pansy says, "it's either that or you've fallen in love with cooking, and considering you burnt my omelette again, I have to say that doesn't seem very likely."

Draco rolls his eyes. "I obviously don't give you enough credit."

He owls Potter later that night. _Did you know Pans was convinced you and I were together?_ he writes, and Potter's response comes much faster than it should have. _Together like on a bench?_ it reads. Draco smiles as he puts it away, and doesn't reply.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Saturday, 21st November 1998**

 

The morning after, Draco went through the motions as he did every other morning: he cast a shaving spell and had a shower, he changed into a clean uniform and then stood in front of the bathroom mirror combing his hair away from his face—all while resolutely ignoring the depraved winks his mirror image kept sending his way.

It was only after he'd pushed the door open to go back to their room that he realised Harry hadn't been standing just outside. Harry was still sleeping, tucked into bed. The bond would never have allowed that—they had about ten feet, that was as far as they could ever walk from each other. Ten feet.

"Harry!" Draco raced all the way to the bed. "Harry, wake up!"

Harry blinked his eyes open, staring blankly up at Draco.

"The bond!" Draco told him, excitedly. "I think we've managed to break it."

"Oh."

"Merlin's beard, for a moment there I really believed we'd be stuck together forever."

"Right. Well, I guess that's one less thing we'll have to worry about now," Harry said, but his smile looked a lot like a grimace, and Draco didn't know what to do to make that go away.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 6th June 2003**

 

Potter takes him to the cinema on the day after Draco's birthday. They watch _The Red Violin_ , which Potter has somehow managed to get them to play even though it's been ages since its release—Draco guesses it might have involved a lot of cash or a lot of friends, or perhaps even both. Either way, he doesn't ask.

It's magical. They're nearly alone in the room, and Draco doesn't even balk when Potter kisses him, and he doesn't question it when Potter offers to walk him home. They're standing in Draco's doorway when Draco says, "You know, I used to call you the new Dark Lord."

"When?"

"When talking to Pansy."

"No, I mean, was that long ago?"

"Oh . . ." Draco hesitates. "Not that long, really. I mean, after eighth year, after—you know."

"Fair enough," he says eventually. "Though it does make me wonder what you're calling me now."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Draco steps into his building, makes it halfway to the stairs before he turns back. "Well, you did manage to keep at least one of your promises, even though it took you years to get there," he tells Potter, smiling softly. "So whatever I'm calling you now, it can't really be that bad, can it?"

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 13th June 2003**

 

When Draco goes to Potter's house for the first time, Potter opens the door in a tight black t-shirt and a loose pair of grey jeans. "Hey," he says, smiling that smile he smiles for his friends, and Draco feels his insides tying themselves into endless knots.

"Come on in, you git," Potter says, grabbing Draco's wrist to pull him inside. "It's raining out there."

Draco wants to tell him he'd cast an Impervius, that he's perfectly dry and nowhere near that useless. Instead, he finds himself being dragged to the couch, a soft mauve thing that feels oddly deformed against his backside.

Potter's house isn't anything like what Draco had been expecting. It's dark, his shelves are full of old tomes and relics, and the curtains are a heavy green braid. "I wasn't expecting your place to look quite like this," he ends up saying, for lack of anything better to say.

Potter shrugs. "The Blacks used to live here," he admits. "I guess this might have gone to you, if Sirius hadn't left a will."

"No thanks," Draco mutters, but his heart feels tight, straining against its walls like it's trying to climb out of his chest. And it's not the house that's to blame for that—it's Potter. The way he's sitting right next to Draco, with his face softened by the low light.

"Sometimes I get so confused," Draco whispers. "You really—you look so much like you did during our eighth year, only then I remember how you made my life miserable for years and . . . and we wasted so much time . . ." He sits there, toying with his sleeve, feeling mildly terrified as he strips his soul bare. "And all the while we were secretly in love with each other. How is that not stupid?"

"I know," Potter says quietly. "I'm sorry."

"But then there are other times when you do things like my birthday, and they feel so wonderful I just don't know how to—"

Potter grabs his face and kisses him. For a moment there, Draco is so afraid Potter will think twice and decide this is a terrible idea, that he'll push Draco away like he did before. But Potter just keeps kissing him, making soft noises into his mouth.

"I meant what I said," Potter tells him, pushing Draco back until his spine is uncomfortably pressed against the armrest. "I'm really am sorry, I know I was an arse to you."

"Ow," Draco whines, "and now you're trying to maim me or some—" but Potter simply straddles him and cuts him off him with a kiss.

"You're always talking and it's very distracting—" Potter says when he pulls back, but that's as far as he gets before Draco drags him back in, forcibly shoving his tongue into Potter's open mouth.

Draco stretches his neck up when Potter's mouth moves down to it, his stomach muscles straining under his skin. Potter moans into his neck, sending warm shivers along Draco's spine, and fumbles impatiently with the buttons on Draco's shirt—but it seems Potter's still not the most patient person Draco has met, eventually deciding to simply tear Draco's shirt apart.

"You bloody bastard," Draco snaps at him. "That was— _fuck_ —I actually liked that shirt. There was no need for you to—"

"So cast a _Reparo_ on it later," Potter says, hovering just above his nipples. "Honestly," he adds, before sinking his teeth into Draco's skin.

Draco has only once felt somewhat close to this before—filled with lust and want and need, but also justified, as if everything in his life had been leading up to this one moment, to him squirming under Potter, giving in to him a second time, unable to think about anything but how much he wants this to go on.

They fumble with each other's clothes until they're both lying naked on the couch, the hard planes of Potter's body fitting perfectly between Draco's thighs, and Draco has to bite down a gasp as Potter's cock slides against his own. It's shocking how well they still fit together, even after being apart for so long.

"Can I—will you let me—" Potter asks, his voice cracking slightly near the end.

"Yes," Draco hisses, _Yes, Merlin, anything you want_. He feels like he can't think, like he can't even breathe properly when every shiver, every single moan that escapes Potter's mouth is driving him wilder and wilder.

Potter swears, stretching an arm over the back of couch. There are a few whispered words before something hard slaps into Potter's hand, and then Draco can feel a slick finger rubbing at his entrance. "Okay?"

"No," Draco groans, squirming closer to that finger, " _more_ , you idiot. You're not supposed to stop before you've even—" He breaks off, moaning as Potter's finger slides in, flexing until it's pressing against Draco's prostate. "Merlin . . . Merlin," Draco says, his voice tight as he arches his back.  

Draco can't remember ever being this hard, not even that day back at Hogwarts, when they'd fucked on Draco's bed. He's desperate. He's writhing beneath Potter, breathing hard as Potter adds a second finger, slowly moving them back and forth.

"Merlin, will you just . . . fuck me already . . ."

"Are you sure? I mean, I'd rather not hurt you . . ."

"Merlin, just—just shut up. It's not like it's my first time, for fuck's—" Draco starts, but Potter leans forward and kisses him, swallowing the rest of his words—and it's sweet, it's oddly sweet, not at all like Potter's kisses back at work. It's soft and tender and quite possibly driving Draco insane, and it's only made much better by the feeling of Potter's hard length finally— _finally_ —sliding into him.

Draco's hips roll with Potter's thrusts—it feels delicious, and he's pretty sure he won't last much longer—they've both had ages of weird foreplay after all, even if it didn't feel much like foreplay at the time. As Potter's cock keeps nudging Draco's prostate, Draco can feel his eyes slide closed. Potter's hand finally wraps around his cock, pulling on it firmly, and suddenly, Draco is coming all over Potter's hand.

They lay together in the foggy aftermath of orgasm, both of them motionless, both of them collapsed on top of Potter's shapeless couch. Draco can feel Potter's cock softening inside him, he can feel Potter's come sliding out of him drip by drip, and it's so close to perfection in every aspect Draco's almost terrified it'll have to end.

"Don't go," Draco says, grabbing Potter's arm when Potter pushes himself up. "I just—I don't think I could let you leave again," he adds quickly, and he feels so stupid once the words are out, so very stupid. He's revealed more about himself in one afternoon than in several months bonded together.

Potter freezes, hovering above him, but then he exhales slowly and lets himself fall back down. "I was just going to fetch my wand," he says softly. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise. To be honest—" Potter smiles a sad little smile, "—I don't think I ever knew how to forget you either."

The room falls into silence, nothing but their soft breathing to break it. It's the happiest Draco has been in years—here, collapsed under Harry Potter, in a room that smells like sex and sweat. Sure, it's far from a fairy tale ending, but it works for him all the same.

 

*   *   *

 

 

**Friday, 11th July 2003**

 

Draco buys treacle tart before going home, just as he does every Friday. He puts a stasis charm on it and leaves it on his coffee table, then pours himself a glass of wine and sits on his couch to wait. At exactly ten minutes to eight, Harry stumbles through his Floo.

"Hey," he says softly, bending down to kiss Draco. "Love you."

"Ugh, you guys are so sickeningly sweet to each other," comes Pansy's voice from the kitchen. "For fuck's sake, Draco, just move out already."

"This is my home too," Draco yells back. "Besides, need I remind you this is at least partly your fault?"

"Rub salt in the wound, why don't you?"

Potter eyes land on the treacle tart, where it's resting on the table. "I see you've been thinking about me," he says, lacing his fingers with Draco's.

"Because I know how much you like your sweets?"

Potter rolls his eyes. "No, you prat. Because you care about me enough to buy them for me."

"I'm merely self-serving," Draco says. "I'll do just about anything as long as it keeps you coming back to me."

"Who knew Slytherins could be such hopeless romantics?"

Draco drops his face into Potter's neck, grinning. He knows this isn't the past. He knows this Potter isn't the same one from eighth year—he's older now and ostensibly wiser, but most importantly, he's also Draco's boyfriend. And Draco, who's lived through a war and an unknown bonding spell that nearly drove him up the walls, is pretty sure he now knows everything there is to know about love.

He knows that, and he knows some promises are important enough to keep, even if it takes years for it to happen.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can leave a comment here or [on Livejournal](http://this-bloody-cat.livejournal.com/39936.html) ♥


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